


Betting On It

by FangQueen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Enemies to Lovers, Frottage, Gambling, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, My own interpretation of the Quidditch matches for the '93-'94 school year, Semi-Public Sex, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 09:52:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8839984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FangQueen/pseuds/FangQueen
Summary: ”Look, next match, I could make a couple more bets with some of the blokes, probably win most of it for you. I’ll do whatever I have to, I just need some time.”“Whatever you have to, huh?”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KittyAugust (KittyAug)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyAug/gifts).



> Written for the 2016 [Interhouse Fest](http://interhouse-fest.livejournal.com/123177.html) on LJ! Based on the following prompt:
> 
>  **Prompter:** kittyaugust  
>  **Pairing:** Marcus/Oliver  
>  **Prompt:** All that antagonism on the pitch was always going somewhere. It takes a poorly thought out bet, a lot of Gryffindor courage and a bit of locker room smut to get their real feelings out in the open. Or as out in the open as you ever can when you seem to find yourself shagging a Slytherin, that is.
> 
> I have never written for this pairing before, but I am officially LOVING IT. A big thank you to my prompter for coming up with such a fun scenario and showing me the light. xD Also, of course, a thank you to my ever-dedicated beta: my husband, S.

“No. No no no! SHIT! Oh _come on_!”

As each head around him slowly turned to give him a quizzical stare, Oliver Wood couldn’t be bothered to pay them any mind, furious and still cursing under his breath as he was at the way the sea of green on the opposite side of the stands had erupted into raucous cheers. How? How in Godric’s name could that prissy little primadonna, Malfoy, have managed to catch the snitch--on today of all days?! When he normally mucked it up the rest of the time! And here the Gryffindor captain had thought he was just on the team because of his daddy’s money. No, apparently, he had at least _some_ semblance of talent, and only chose to present it to the world on the _one bloody day_ where it would make a difference! And to watch that bastard, Flint, parade around the ring with them, like they’d done something so spectacular--it made him sick.

In a moment of clarity, he realized the Weasley twins, both seated directly to his right, were watching him with raised eyebrows, and before either could voice what he knew with nary a doubt they were thinking, he growled out an excuse at a much lower octave than he had previously and jumped to his feet. He was down the stairs and on the grounds below long before anyone else, and he waited at the back outside wall of the pitch till he’d heard the last of the crowd trickle off towards the castle in the distance. Leaning against the stands behind him for support, he replayed the events over and over in his head. Ravenclaw had been ahead for the majority of the match-- _far_ ahead. How in the hell had Slytherin managed to snag victory from them when there’d been miles of points between the two scores? There must’ve been something he’d missed, in all his anxiety; a play or two that had clinched it for them just enough to make Malfoy catching the snitch worth it.

What did it matter, anyway? As the pitch suddenly fell into a deafening silence--eerie after all the commotion mere minutes ago--Oliver knew his fate was sealed. This moment was, of course, something he’d had to think about previously: what he would do, in the event that Slytherin _did_ actually win. He knew he couldn’t pay what was owed; he hadn’t even had anywhere _near_ as much as he’d bet when he’d agreed to it. He’d thought of just running out on it, heading back to the common room with the rest and pretending the deal had never existed. But he also knew _he’d_ track him down, probably even after they graduated in a few months (if the other managed to actually do it this year), till he was given what he’d rightfully won...Besides: Gryffindors weren’t cowards. He’d never been the type to turn away with his tail between his legs, and he wasn’t about to do so now.

So instead of following the path the others had forged, he slipped back into the stadium, making a quick beeline for the arch opposite where he’d entered. The Slytherin changing room was deserted, save for the open locker he spotted from the entryway. Forcing a deep breath into his gradually tightening chest, he listened to his footsteps echo on the tile floor as he stepped inside just enough to make his presence known. Even stretched at such an odd angle, his hand remained on the knob, afraid to actually close the door, in case the situation went south. “Flint?” he called out cautiously, grasping at the fleeting hope that maybe he’d forgotten after all and had already left.

Unfortunately, he was sorely disappointed as the burly, black-haired Slytherin rounded the corner from the showers, having changed back into his uniform from his Quidditch leathers and scrubbing his cropped locks dry with a small, white towel. He looked rather human like that, doing something so normal, instead of just being the bane of Oliver’s existence that he was the rest of the time. The clothing clung to his body, as if he’d put everything on a little too quickly, while his skin was still mostly wet. Maybe because he’d heard Oliver enter, and he’d had to scramble to be decent? He _had_ come from the showers, after all. That was definitely a mental image that the Gryffindor could’ve done without: that of Marcus Flint stepping out of the hot spray, beads of water running over his neck, shoulders, chest, down to his...

Marcus nodded for the Gryffindor opposite to enter further and regarded him with a curious eye as he said, “Wood. I assume you have my money?”

Ignoring the invitation, Oliver remained glued to the spot as he tried to find the right words. He’d rehearsed a rather fabulous speech--if he did say so himself--for this moment exactly, but it was all lost to him now that he felt trapped under the other’s steely gaze. “Uh...about that…”

The other boy paused briefly as he went to toss his towel into that one open locker. Oliver could physically see him bristle, as if he already knew what he was going to tell him, and it made the Gryffindor ill to think of what might come next. Not because he was scared of _him_. Of course not. He just didn’t like losing, or admitting when he was wrong. That was all. If he was _scared_ , then he wouldn’t have even been caught dead talking to the bloke in the first place the week prior, when the subject of a 40 galleon bet against the Slytherin team was brought up. No, he wouldn’t have accepted such an idiotic offer, knowing full well his pockets had never held that much at any one time in his life thus far. He wouldn’t have responded with a resounding “You’re on!”, either, leaping at the chance to prove Marcus’ comment wrong, that he wasn’t “too chickenshit” to do it. Hell, he wouldn’t have made all the bets with him that he had over the years! Sure, they’d always been much smaller, and when it came to Quidditch, his predictions were usually quite spot on. It was typically _Marcus_ having to shamefully dig out his pockets at the end of a match. Oh, how the tables had turned, and Oliver positively dreaded his counterpart’s next words. Because he knew very well he wouldn’t have been kind, had it been the other way around...

“You don’t have it,” Marcus finally replied, more of a decidedly factual statement than a question. Damnit, was he really that easy to read?

“...No. I don’t. Didn’t. I really thought you would lose--”

“Shouldn’t have bet what you don’t have.”

“I know, I was,” _Being an utter hormone-controlled moron_ , “I wasn’t thinking, alright? I don’t have it right now, but I’ll...I’ll try to get it, it just might take awhile--”

“We had a deal, Wood.”

“I _know_ , alright?!”

“And I’m not leaving here until you pay me.”

“What the fuck do you want me to do?! _I don’t have it_!”

“Okay, so you don’t have _money_ , but what else do you have?”

“What, do you want my fucking...watch, or something? I don’t understand. Look, next match, I could make a couple more bets with some of the blokes, probably win most of it for you. I’ll do whatever I have to, I just need some time.”

“Whatever you have to, huh?” An expression crossed over Marcus’ face just then. One Oliver had seen a time or two, but had never quite been able to put his finger on. It made him uneasy, self-conscious beyond what he ever was normally.

“Yeah, I’ll figure something out, alright?”

Marcus snorted, and Oliver most certainly didn’t watch him lick his lips as he did it. “I dunno that I trust you to actually pay if I give you more time.”

“What else can I do, though? I don’t have anything to give you today!”

“Well, you say you’ll do what you have to. That just gets me thinking...I guess you could always give it to me another way.”

“I--what?”

Why was he looking at him like that? Why was _Marcus sodding Flint_ looking at him like that? With a fire burning in his typically cold eyes, raking Oliver’s form in a way that made him squirm and tug on the hem of his jumper. And why the hell was it twisting his stomach into knots--and not entirely unpleasant ones, either? Of course, he wasn’t completely daft. Enough so to take this ridiculous bet in the first place, but not to misunderstand the offer that had just been slammed down on the table without a single warning. He couldn’t say he was surprised that a brute like Flint would solicit a bloke in that manner, but he was rather shocked to hear the words directed at _him_ in particular.

“You’re joking,” he said, praying that he was right, but Marcus instantly shook his head.

“No, I’m not. I won our wager, fair and square. So either you pay me, or...you _pay me_. Understood?” After another uncomfortable beat of Oliver merely shifting in place, chewing his bottom lip as he weighed his options, the Slytherin added, “Unless you’re too much of a pussy, that is.”

Shit. That was always what did it, huh? No way he could back out on a challenge like that. He had too much damn pride. Wasn’t like he was a dainty little virgin, anyway--and, if he was interpreting any of this correctly, neither, it seemed, was Marcus. There was nothing necessarily at stake in that way for either of them. Except, perhaps, the knowledge that Oliver would have to bear for the remainder of their time together at this school, every day they crossed paths: that he’d been fucked by the Slytherin troll to pay off a debt. Okay, troll was pushing it. Flint was attractive, in his own way. He’d actually really grown into his looks over the course of this term, even if his fellow Gryffindors didn’t exactly see what he saw in him. Not that he really _saw_ anything, but it wasn’t crazy to compliment somebody where one was due, was it? Even if he loathed them?

“So, what’s it gonna be?”

Blinking dumbly, Oliver still said nothing. No, he couldn’t do this. He wasn’t some common whore, and this wasn’t such a big deal that he needed to make himself out to be one, either. It wasn’t till he was halfway across the pitch, Marcus’ shouts for him to come back in the distance behind him, that he realized he’d finally done it: after all these years of chomping at the bit to prove himself, that he was a stronger, smarter player, a more respectable leader...he’d finally walked out on a challenge. If he knew Marcus at all, the remainder of the semester was going to be hell.

***

“Oi, Oliver! Watch it!”

Just in time, the keeper skirted a bludger headed straight for his gut, feeling his heart stop as it whizzed past his side instead. Fred chased it down and whacked it back at the Ravenclaw beater who’d sent it his way, and Oliver gave a weak wave in thanks. He was not on his game today--not even close. It was actually a wonder how they were managing to hold onto their current lead in the first place. Shaking his head to clear it, he reached for the quaffle as it hurled towards one of the goalposts, barely catching it on the tips of his fingers, and in turn passing it off to Angelina.

With the rigorous training schedule he’d forced upon all of them, one would think his head would be more in it than ever before today, but it just wasn’t. Because he’d also spent that whole time dodging Flint and ignoring the numerous notes he’d left around, saying that he still intended to get his “payment.” Whether that was the monetary kind or the… _other_ , Oliver wasn’t yet certain. He wasn’t going to lose--not a match, nor a bet--not again. But after weeks of being unable to get that look in Marcus’ eyes out of his mind, and now today, feeling him watching him intently from the stands, he just couldn’t focus.

Davies tried for another cheap shot, but it fell short before it even got to him. The entire crowd was in an uproar, and everyone in the air was craning their necks to see why. Forgetting his personal dilemmas for the moment, Oliver thought maybe it was Harry going after the snitch again--he’d already tried twice this match--and he discovered it was, but...What the hell were those things down on the grounds? Dementors? Surely not, they wouldn’t, not after the last time! A shriek died in his throat as he saw Harry raise his wand, a jet of brilliant, white vapor flying forth towards the three figures below, and then the snitch was in his hand, Gryffindors rushing the pitch to congratulate them as they all lowered themselves back to the ground, and Oliver breathed his first sigh of relief in months.

***

In hindsight, he should’ve known better than to linger in the showers this afternoon. He should’ve asked one of the guys to hang back, but they'd all rushed off to see what the hell that display at the end had been about. And the luxuriously hot water had felt so good on his sore muscles, especially after a win like they’d had today, and before he knew it, he was walking out to an empty locker room. Well, empty, save for one…

“Alright, Wood?”

Oliver couldn’t help his heart from racing. There stood Marcus Flint, his looming figure blocking the only (presumably locked) exit, and he cursed himself for not even thinking this would happen. _Of course_ he’d take this opportunity to corner him. Actually, were the roles switched, he probably would’ve done the same. Not a soul in sight, nor even within earshot, he knew for a fact--there was no way out of this. Not without a fight. Which, obviously, was what he was expecting. So it came as a great shock to him when the Slytherin merely continued in a rather calm, collected voice:

“Great match. D’ya win any bets today?”

“Uh...no,” in fact, he hadn’t even taken any, as shaken as he still was from the last time, “I didn’t--”

“So you still don’t have my money, then, huh?”

He must’ve looked a sight at that moment, huddled against his locker like he was, as if he could hide inside it. Since when had he allowed _anyone_ , let alone a common bully like Flint, to turn him into such a pansy? Enough of this. Hoping he could garner the strength to stand his ground, he replied, “No. And I’m not going to, not for awhile, anyway. I told you this before! I’m done betting, okay? So just leave me the fuck out of it!”

“And I told _you_ before,” Marcus said as he took a few steps forward, even as Oliver quickly shifted back, despite him having nowhere else to go, “either you pay me, or you _pay me_. Now, which is it gonna be? ‘Cause I’m getting tired of waiting.”

Just as he was attempting to think of another retort, maybe one to distract the Slytherin long enough to give him time to make a mad dash around him and out the door, Oliver suddenly noticed something. Marcus was looking at him _like that_ again, which always made him antsy, but...Well, he’d never seen it up close before. Hazel eyes studied him, taking in his damp hair, his still wind-abused cheeks, his own blown pupils, his mind whirring behind them. And as he watched him scan his features, the keeper began to pick up subtle things that Marcus was doing as well, that he didn’t know how he hadn’t noticed previously. Like the way he was shifting from foot to foot, licking his lips, rubbing the back of his neck. Was he...nervous? The very notion seemed insane. Why would a hulking bloke like him need to be nervous about confronting someone like Oliver? He considered the offer they were discussing, the one he’d ran from the last time, and he thought he knew the answer, but it just couldn’t be…

“Back off, mate,” he threw back, but it lacked the venom it would’ve had any other time. “Why the hell are you so obsessed with getting to shag me, anyway? I mean, unless you’re...You’re not using this to, like, ask me out somehow, are you?”

“No,” Marcus answered, a little too quickly, and Oliver noted that this was the first time he’d ever witnessed him refusing to meet his gaze. “Are you stupid? Why would I do something like that?”

Shit, that _was_ it, wasn’t it? But that made no goddamn _sense_. Still, it was...intriguing, to say the least. Those eyes were on him again, and Oliver found himself at a complete loss. He didn’t really have the desire to run anymore, but...He didn’t really know what he wanted. He just knew he felt compelled to see how far this would go. Resigning himself to his fate, he gulped as he grumbled out, “Bloody hell. Yeah, alright, then,” trying to think of a way out of this even as he consented to it. The possibility still remained that Marcus could be bluffing; he might back down himself before they took it too far. Honestly, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d made a comment, only to call Oliver a fag when he fell for it.

Marcus actually looked genuinely surprised for a moment there. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. But I get to top,” Oliver added hastily, and next thing he knew, he was being crowded against the wall, the full weight of Marcus’ muscular form holding him in place, his hands gripping his wrists like a vice and trapping them down at his sides.

“What made you think _you’re_ gonna be calling the shots, princess?” he spat, in what Oliver could only assume was his attempt at being playful, and he had to admit, the huskiness of the statement was pretty sexy in its own right.

In a moment of blind panic, he thought Marcus might be swooping in for a kiss, but then he was being forcibly flipped around, and he barely had enough time to brace his hands against the wall to prevent his nose from meeting with it as well. Oliver knew he was strong enough to fight back. Marcus didn’t even have a height advantage on him. But he didn’t want this to come to blows if he could avoid it. Marcus was just having a laugh; he’d let him go any moment now, throw an insult or two, then leave. There was no way he was actually serious.

Oliver flushed in embarrassment at the quiet yelp that escaped him as he felt Marcus’ rough hands grip his hips, callused fingers slipping just a centimeter or so beneath his sweater to trace the sharp line of his pelvis. It was actually a much gentler touch than he’d been expecting, after all that, and he found himself leaning back into the boy as Marcus responded likewise and...Was he _smelling_ him? Yes, he realized with a start: the Slytherin was, indeed, burying his face in Oliver’s brown locks and breathing deep, groaning softly to himself as his hands progressed further up his abdomen. Okay. So maybe he _was_ serious. Oh Merlin, they were really going to do this, weren’t they? He should’ve been mortified, and yet...

“Ah!” Oliver responded to a sudden nip at his earlobe, following it up with a more confident moan when he felt the wet slide of Marcus’ tongue entering the canal, swirling around inside his ear in a fluid motion that easily forced his mind past the idea that this was all just a test of some kind. He wasn’t exactly opposed to it--especially now that Marcus, who obviously knew he’d found a sweet spot, was continuing to do positively sinful things to his ear. But that was what scared him most about it. He should’ve been pushing him off, running for the hills at the very notion. But he wasn’t, and there had to be something to that that he just couldn’t quite comprehend right now, as his mind quickly became clouded with lust and all other thoughts fled his conscious. Just as Marcus clamped his teeth around the stretch of skin behind his jaw, Oliver bucked back against him, hating himself for how turned on he already was, but feeling better that he’d discovered, through that action, that he wasn’t the only one enjoying himself...Even when the other’s hands finally dipped down to undo his trousers, he didn’t resist, desperately trying to convince himself it was because he still didn’t want the hassle of a fight, rather than acknowledging the truth.

“Always knew you were a pouf,” Marcus muttered as he pulled Oliver’s swollen cock free, hot breath across his ear making him shiver.

“Look who’s talking.” With the Slytherin pressed flush against his back, he couldn't mistake the equally hard shaft, rubbing up on one of his arse cheeks as he rolled his hips.

“Yeah,” he could practically hear the shrug in his voice, “but it’ll still be _you_ screaming _my_ name before we’re done here.”

Even with knowing how much truth there was in that comment--because he knew _himself_ , and how it wasn’t difficult at all to turn him into a shrieking mess--Oliver still tried to scoff. However, the sound died in his throat as Marcus began to stroke him, intermittently kneading his balls with the opposite hand. The Gryffindor wiggled under his touch, eventually pushing his bottoms down to pool at his ankles, in his desperation to be able to thrust into that hold on him more easily. But this was about his payment, wasn’t it? He realized through his haze that he should probably be contributing in some way as well, and Marcus hissed when he reached behind him to cup him through his pants, responding by maneuvering a hand onto Oliver’s ass. The Scot surprised himself once again with how he reacted to the pad of his forefinger circling his tight hole.

“You got anything around here?”

“What, like lube? No, but--”

“Oh, so you don’t keep it in your locker, then? And here I actually believed those rumors.”

“What? No! Why, do you? Slag.” Oliver panted around the words, painfully aware of how hypocritical they were, considering it was _he_ who was half-naked, fully erect, and arching his back at the mere mention. “But there are charms for that sort of thing, you know.” Glancing over his shoulder, he watched as Marcus colored significantly, and his equally-flushed partner bit his tongue. The pang of guilt in his chest at the realization that the Slytherin probably didn’t know those spells was a little more than he could bear. He muttered the incantation without another word about it.

Marcus teasingly slid those now slicked digits along the crack of Oliver’s arse, chuckling when it made the other whine. “You really want it, don’t you? Bet you start begging me in a minute.”

“Sod off,” he shot back, never before having felt so betrayed by his own inability to keep quiet during sex. Not even that time in the Restricted Section…”Isn’t this about you, anyway? Get on with it.”

For that brief moment when two of Marcus’ fingers shoved their way inside him all at once, Oliver wished that he hadn’t been so insistent. He cried out, the stretch of it feeling all too painful and uncomfortable, making him wonder why those other guys had enjoyed him doing this so much. Prior to this afternoon, he’d never been on the receiving end. But then his counterpart seemed to take pity on him, merely wriggling them as he allowed him to adjust, only moving again when his small noises turned more aroused once more. Oliver moaned when Marcus curled his knuckles and brushed something inside him that made his balls hitch up. _Now_ he was beginning to see the appeal.

Arching back onto his hand, Oliver urged the boy on, voicing his pleasure whenever he picked up the pace. The other brunette set to rutting against him, rubbing his cock along his thigh as best he could, and soon the locker room was filled with the sounds of both their reluctant, half-stifled moans. Seemed neither was too keen to let on just how much they were enjoying this, despite how obvious they were both making it anyway. Marcus was the much quieter one of the pair, but Oliver could still tell that this was driving him wild, if the way his movements became increasingly more frantic was anything to go by. The Gryffindor had remained with his hands braced against the wall, not knowing how far they were really intending to take this, and fearing ending it too quickly if he did anything else. Again, he’d never been on this side of it, but...he kind of wanted to go ahead with it, if Marcus was willing.

“Fuck...just...want…”

With that vain attempt at coherence, Oliver was glad Marcus managed to understand what he was asking for. Some awkward shuffling about, and then he was on all fours on the bench in the center of the room, waiting with bated breath as he listened to the scrambling sounds of Marcus anxiously releasing his own cock from his trousers.

“Could you, uh...That charm again?”

Oliver obliged, and with one swift motion, Marcus was inside him, a tad too quickly for his liking, and he sobbed once more. Like with his fingers, the keeper wondered if he was doing this on purpose, or if it was nerves. He settled on the latter, as the other boy gripped his hips and began to guide him more easily, eventually filling him to the brim, before he started a steady rhythm. At first, the sting of it had him almost squirming away from him, but at Marcus’ urging, a firm hand pressing into the small of his back, he relaxed enough to rest on his elbows, and was pleasantly surprised to find the angle made all the difference.

“Oh fuck yeah…” he moaned, arching in an attempt to get him to hit that spot again that had him seeing stars.

Marcus leaned over him, that same chuckle from before in his ear making Oliver’s toes curl in his boots. “Yeah, you like that?” A brutal snap of his hips forward had the Scot crying out. “Tell me how much you like it. Say my name.”

The last ounce of strong will within him refused to give in to Marcus’ assumption of earlier, and as best as he could with his voice coated in arousal, he responded cheekily, “Flint.”

The fingers of one hand curled in Oliver’s hair, pulling his head back. “Say my actual name, bitch. Go on.”

Oliver whined it out on accident initially, just as the boy inside him narrowly missed his prostate. Now _that_ was definitely on purpose, because as soon as he started saying it, repeatedly chanting it, Marcus returned to relentlessly pounding into him, till the moniker was nothing but a flurry of slurred gasps falling from Oliver’s lips. When the Slytherin finally growled out for him to touch himself, alerting him to the fact that in all this, he’d neglected to attend to himself yet, he obeyed without a moment’s hesitation. Cock in hand, Oliver tried with all his might to keep himself just a step back from the brink, but it was impossible, what with how Marcus was playing with that spot inside him like it was his new favorite toy, and how he was groaning in his ear as he lapped at the shell. He could feel how thick the other’s prick was, stretching him, and he found himself wishing for nothing more than to feel it pulsing inside him. The addition of that image was what eventually pushed him over the edge, forcing his release out in thick gobs that shot onto the wooden slab beneath him. As his climax ravaged his body, he spasmed and choked out a sob of a moan, to which he heard Marcus mutter, “Fucking hell, Oliver.” It only took a few more short strokes before he grunted and stilled entirely, and Oliver felt a hot wetness fill him as Marcus’ cock jumped like his heartbeat against the keeper’s back.

Both panted in place for a moment, Oliver still holding himself up with one hand on the bench, while Marcus rested his forehead against the nape of his neck. Then he heard the Slytherin mumble, “Shit...” He didn’t finish the thought aloud, but his partner had a pretty clear idea of what he meant.

“Yeah, we got a bit carried away, I think,” he replied breathlessly. It was difficult to think in his current state, but the specific reason for why they’d started this in the first place was coming back to him, and he asked, “So, we good, then? I mean, for the, uh…”

“Oh. Yeah. S’pose.”

Oliver retrieved his wand from his pants pocket as he struggled to his feet and yanked them up, casting a quick cleaning spell over the both of them. Once their clothes were set to rights, he then made for his locker, intending to gather his belongings and go, not wishing to endure what he was sure to be an awkward scene. However, he didn’t know why, but he looked back once he got there, taking in the sight of Marcus idling at the exit, a bit of a dejected expression on his face. Did _he_ cause that, Oliver wondered to himself. He didn’t know that he liked it. Because what they’d just done--while he felt like he was still mentally processing it and what he really thought about it--had actually been...pretty great. More so than he’d expected, anyway. And, although he didn’t know why he cared, he found he didn’t want Marcus to believe anything otherwise.

“I have another wager for you, if you’re willing,” he broke the silence, a thought occurring to him.

Marcus raised an eyebrow in return, clearly skeptical, but responded regardless, “I’m listening.”

“I predict we’re going to play you lot for the Cup this year. _And_ \--” he continued emphatically when it looked as if Marcus was about to object, “I predict that we’ll _trounce_ you.”

“Oh really?” he scoffed, although his eyes were lighting up again, as if he already had an idea just where this was headed.

“Yes. And if I’m correct...then I get to return the favor.” There was a beat during which the Slytherin appeared to be thinking it over. When, in doing so, his gaze lingered a moment too long on Oliver’s pelvic area for the Scot’s liking, he nearly lost his nerve as he gulped and added, “So? What do you say?”

A curt nod was the only response he received. But he took it and immediately fled past him and out the door to hide his blush, because Marcus was looking at him once again, like he had at the start of it all, and he felt as if he’d end up spending the entire night there if he didn’t leave now.

***

Oliver could’ve kissed Harry, and he had half a mind to when he stumbled off his broom, abandoning it on the grass behind him as he rushed over to scoop the younger boy into his arms and twirl him around. Soon, the rest of their team joined them, piling on until they were squished in the middle of a seven-person bear hug, ears ringing from the whoops and cheers reverberating around them. The captain didn’t even realize he was crying till they’d broken apart and Fred had made an off-color joke about it as he pulled him in for another, more personal embrace. They’d done it. They’d finally fucking done it! And in his last match ever at this school, an excellent start for his career ahead of him. The Interhouse Quidditch Cup shoved into his hands, hoisted up to ride atop George’s shoulders as he held it aloft, a carpet of red-clad fans spilling from the stands onto the pitch, an offer for Puddlemere’s reserves, despite him not actually being a Hogwarts graduate yet, waiting for him in his trunk in the dorms--he hadn’t been this happy in a long time.

Then his mind shifted to a wholly different track, and he scanned the throng in search for one particular face. There he was, easy to spot, in fact, in his green robes, leaning quite nonchalantly against the wall beyond the crowd circling around the Gryffindor team. _His_ teammates appeared to have deserted him to go and nurse their shame within the safety of their locker room. One would think he’d be pissed off, throwing a hissy fit as usual, but no. He was wearing an expectant smirk, and a thought passed between them as their gazes locked:

 _Time to “pay up,” Marcus_.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos/comments = <3!
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr](https://ohlookagaydraco.tumblr.com/) and [LJ](http://fangqueen.livejournal.com/) as well!


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